


Winter nights

by RussianWitch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Queen, her Gods and her dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter nights

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta'd.

The war of the five kings ended halfway through the winter when even the nobles had to start focusing on surviving more than their usual games. Their armies could no longer be replenished and their supplies dwindled, so they had to return to their seats of power with their remaining men to wait for warmer times and brighter days; to gather strength for another day.

Those who occupied the North fled to their homelands and homesteads unwilling to stand the winter in hostile territories. They left ruins behind to be haunted only by those who had fallen to protect them. Year after year Winterfell stood empty, abandoned and crumbling; it’s Weirwood burned and dead. Not even the people gathered at Wintertown dared to come near. No one was there to see the heart-tree rise from the ashes and the snowdrifts in the middle of the dead season, no one saw two travelers coming up the King’s Road and enter the ruins.

Only when the Black Brothers come down from the Wall chased by the wildmen and the creatures that had followed them from behind the Wall, does anyone realize that Winterfell is inhabited again.  
The last Stark had returned in the heart of winter with hair touched by fire and will sharp as ice. The Black Brothers find her defended by a man who is foul of temper, curious of loyalty and who has been rumored dead for years. He stands with her a silent wall and fallows her like a shadow, her father’s sword miraculously in his hand ready to cut anything obstructing his mistress down.  
It doesn’t take much to have the Black Brothers bowing to her will, most stay to start rebuilding the seat of the North, a few go back to the wall to collect her bastard brother and commander of the Night Watch to bring him back to his home. Sansa Stark rides with them eager to see the land she had thought to hate when she left as a naive child.

Jon doesn’t want to leave castle Black, it feels like failure to give up the post even if there aren’t enough men any longer to stand guard. He also doesn’t feel much like bending his knee to a half sister who has never done much but tolerate him.  
Yet not a fortnight after the uncrowned queen of the North comes to the Wall, the last of the Night Watch join the caravan going down to Winterfell to take up its defense. Only Sansa Stark and her guard stay behind at the Wall watching the black clad throng struggle through the snow. When the last man is no longer visible she descends to the tunnel and the gates that lead to the lands Behind the Wall. It usually takes four men to operate the heavy gates and portcullis; they open at the push of her hand. Her guard comes to shield her from the icy wind that’s first to enter from the wild lands.

“What are you doing wench? Inviting more of the winter in? I’d have thought you have enough fucking snow here by now.”

She looks up at him smiling for the first time in what seems like forever. Her hand slips out of her glove to caress his face before turning back towards their horses.

“Not inviting, the winter doesn’t need my invitation. The Wall made us forget who we are and now it’s time to remember again. The Old Gods are coming to take back the North.”

“From what I hear they aren’t as pretty as your beloved Seven, girl. Do you really want them here?”

Sandor lifts her onto her horse before mounting up himself.

“They are more honest. The Wall will fall this winter and I want the Old Gods at my side when it does.”

“While you’re playing queen like you’ve always wanted?”

She steers her horse closer to him, close enough to bat at his arm in mock anger.

“If I am playing queen than you can play the rabid dog that kills at my command.”

He growls at her but doesn’t take the bait. Over the years he’s gotten used to the short bouts of vicious wit she has learned from Little Finger. A moment later she is smiling at him again and even starts up a song. If they are lucky they will catch up with the caravan before fatigue overtakes them, if not Sandor will build them a camp thankful for the opportunity to have his Little Bird to himself again.

Since they have been discovered others make a lot of demands on her time; former Stark banner men, merchants and knights who have heard that Winterfell is inhabited again. She can’t spend her time singing to a killer even if he has followed her all the way from the Veil, even if he’s given her the only oath he’s been willing to give in his life.

They make good time, but it still takes more than a fortnight for them to get back to Winterfell. By then Sandor finds that he’s actually happy to be back in the old Maester’s chamber he’s taken for his own when they first returned. The chamber is large and windowless, warmed both by a large fire pit and the hot springs flowing right under it. When he feels particularly moody and ornery he can hide in the darkness of them with a flask of strong wine until his mood passes and not are disturbed. The only person in the whole castle who dares intrude on him when he’s in his chambers is Sansa and she is bound to be busy having just been away from her castle for more than a moon time.  
Servants bring him food and wine but all Sandor wants is the bed.  
He only bothers to take care of his sword before stripping and burying himself in the soft furs and clean sheets.

Sandor wakes up surrounded by darkness and heat.  
The fire has almost gone out, only the glow of the embers and a candle by the door giving off a little light. He should get up, eat and go see what needs to be done after their long absence, go inspect how far the builders have come or the state of the guard’s training. Sandor barely manages to make it off the bed, stand on the warm stones undecided if he should bother to dress just yet or eat first. Now that he’s rested and warm his body makes some other suggestions too. He can still feel her body against his own from all the nights keeping away the cold.

It’s only his twisted desires that keep him up at night; he knows that she isn’t meant for him. Sandor has been someone’s retainer since the moment he was old enough to page. Sandor isn’t sure he knows how to be a free man, but of all the masters he’s had Sansa is the only one he has actually chosen. When he found her again in the Veil he decided to give her everything she’d be willing to take; his skills, his life...

The door creeks as it opens; he doesn’t need to lock it to keep anyone out after all. She looks more like a wildling of her ancestry than the highborn lady she is; flaming hair cascading around her, slender body covered by a coat of reddish furs. Sandor wonders if this isn’t how the Old Gods are supposed to look like. He’s been told that magic has come back to Westeros together with the darkness and the cold. After spending hours standing guard over Sansa at the heart tree of Winterfell he knows it to be true.

The Seven never spoke to him, never gave him any sign of their existence, but the Old Ones, the gods of the north they have reached out to him. Sandor has heard them whisper to him as he walks through the snow, heard them roar as he spilled blood in the name of the new queen. Sandor has never asked but he’s pretty sure they whisper to Sansa as well, different things, things she needs to know to rule.  
He doubts they have whispered to her about doing this thou...  
She stalks into the darkness of his chamber the candle in her hand providing enough light for Sandor to catch glimpses of pale skin as she moves. His body stirs and he remembers to turn away focusing on stirring up the fire.

“What are you doing here wench?”

He hasn’t allowed himself to call her Little Bird to her face since they’ve entered the north. She doesn’t sing that much these days anyway, and he prefers not to remind her of the time in King’s Landing. Since he can’t bring himself to call her “my lady” as he’s supposed to, “wench” has been his preferred moniker.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

He can hear her drop on the bed and wonders how long her sent will linger after she leaves.

“Careful, even a chained dog can manage to bite when taunted.”

The fire raging again he turns showing her the effect she has on him. She doesn’t flinch as he comes to tower over her staring at her barely covered breasts. By the fire there are still two jugs of Dornish Red he will be emptying as soon as she leaves.

“Then come bite...”

The coat opens at the slightest tug of her hand; Sandor’s mouth goes dry at the sight of her nether curls, the same color as the furs enveloping her. He wonders if this isn’t insanity setting in, in the girl; with all that life has thrown at her, he should have watched for the first signs. He should pull on his pants and go find the Maester to examine her...  
Instead he falls on his knees next to the bed, ignoring the pain in his leg from the old wound.

“You’re out of your fucking mind girl!”

She smirks down on him in answer spreading her legs to show off her cunt; pink and glistening with her juices. Sandor can smell her; sweet perfume and female musk, he digs his fingers into the furs to keep from reaching out and touching.

“None of your fancy knights will take you to wife without your maidenhead.”

She rises up on his elbows frowning down at him.

“The North doesn’t need a king.”

He growls in annoyance.

“It does need legitimate heirs.”

“By the old laws any child I birth is legitimate. And you can give me whelps as well as any man.”

She traces the curve of her breast with a finger focusing his attention on her tits. Her words barely register with him at first.  
When they finally do seep into his addled mind he freezes.  
There had always been a slim chance that he would end up with a wife, but he had never thought of children. Never felt the urge to procreate and continue the family name, not that any pups she might birth would be Cleganes; she would birth Starks no matter which man helped her with them. Sitting up she lays her hand on his face startling him from his musings.

“I want you in my bed Sandor, and at my side as you’ve been for years now. Or am I to hideous for that?”

She’s acting like a milkmaid with a lover. Sandor isn’t one for politics or rules, never needed to bother with them as long as there was someone to tell him who to kill and when to stop. He’s always been good at following orders, but he hasn’t been ordered between a woman’s legs before. He lets his fingers brush against her ankle her skin soft against his callused fingers.

“Stupid bird!”

"Perhaps I am at that..." 

She starts to pull away, wraps the coat around her body as she gets up.

"I think I'll go visit ser Podrick, I'm sure he won't mind relieving me of my...condition." 

The mere mention of the name makes Sandor growl and grab for her before Sansa can dart away. Sansa seems to collect Lannister castoffs left and right having taking in her maybe husband's former page into her household. The boy has grown into a strapping man who gets a lot of attention from the women. Sandor hasn't noticed Sansa looking at the young knight but...he would be more appropriate. Even just thinking about her in the boy's arms makes Sandor want to kill the pup, but he'd love to kill anyone who even looks in her direction with lust anyway.

"If you are that eager to spread you legs for any man, I might as well take what you're offering." 

He ignores the rage that flashes in her eyes, forcefully throwing her back onto the bed where she sprawls gracelessly, clawing at the furs to get back on her feet. He looms over her, studying the changes in her from the moment he remembers laying eyes on her for the first time. Sandor wonders how he's managed to miss his Little Bird having changed into a wolf bitch. He tells himself that he doesn't miss her former naiveté, doesn't miss her stupid dreams of knights and fair maidens.

"Don't do me any favors Sandor!"

This is why he has preferred whores for most of his life; he can't offend them, doesn't have to explain himself to them and can walk away. It's a miracle his cock hasn't dropped off from all the frustration the wench has caused him over the years. He catches a slender ankle and brings it up to his face to rub his cheek against smooth skin. In thanks her other leg kicks him in the chest, he grabs at it as well catching it easily and forcing his prisoner to bend her knees until he's flush against her, her cunt still wet and hot rubbing against his abdomen. His limber Little Bird, she bares her teeth at him twisting and clawing at his face. 

"Oh believe you me wench; I'm not, you'll be crying for me to stop before I'm through with you!" 

She yields somewhat under him, but a delicate brow goes up in challenge and he has to taste her lips that are currently twisted into a doubtful sneer if only to wipe that expression from her face. She tastes as sweet as he has always imagined her to be. Her teeth are sharper than expected thou and sink into his lip drawing blood. His gut twists at the sight of her, her mouth crimson with his blood her nails digging into his flanks to drag him closer. He cannot control himself any longer, doesn't want to after all the years he's been panting after her. 

She offered and he's going to accept no matter the consequences. He grabs her hips and sheaths himself in her in one go ignoring her whimper of pain, ignoring the implications of the act. She has offered and he'll be damned anyway but he's going to enjoy this. She is so tight around him that he imagines her to be able to unman him if she wanted to but she does not. Her nails leave bloody welts on his arms, sides and back but she demands that he move between sobs and he cannot do other than comply and lick her tears away between thrusts.

Her tits fill his hands; he remembers them already trying to burst out of her fancy gowns when he had first known her. How he had wanted to taste them then; lick them until they shone and feed on them until satisfied even when she'd been far too young for that sort of thing. He licks at the pale pink nipple lets his teeth graze the tender flesh and is rewarded with her hand in his hair dragging him up to taste her lips. She learns quickly; takes control, wrenches it from him when he gets caught up in her again. Such a little girl shouldn't be able to best him but as he finds himself on his back with her riding him; russet and milky in the half dark he can't help but wonder if the Old Gods aren't in her just then driving her on. 

Not that he cares, not much anyway not when she's squeezing him tight, and not when her tits are bouncing almost in his reach certainly close enough for him to close his mouth around a tight nipple. She moans so prettily for him, her voice rising and falling as if in song that Sandor needs to hear more. Between the furs and her hair she looks as if surrounded by flames and for once in his life Sandor wants to get burned, charred to cinders, ground in to ash as long as it's by her, by her will. 

He can barely hold on, needs to see her release, needs to hear her sing it out before he gets his own. Sandor slips his hand down, rakes fingers through damp curls and marvels at their softness until his fingers find the spot that makes her howl. Her nails dig into his chest, Sansa practically growls when he attempts to take his hand away thinking he's hurt her somehow. Her eyes black with pleasure, sweet little mouth gaping open she demands more and he gives it to her gladly. 

And she does sing prettily as she comes convulsing around him her head thrown back and all muscles tight. He doesn't even attempt to control himself then, just grabs her hips tight uncaring of leaving bruises and slams her down onto his cock, thrusts himself so deep that he imagines no one else will be able to get his essence out of her. No matter what he will have had marked her for life.  
When she falls down onto his chest exhausted he slides her off onto the bed slipping out of her in the process and regretting it at once. Sansa seems too dazed to even notice, only moaning in protest when he gets up to get food and drink. 

"Don't worry wench I'm not going anywhere." 

She opens one eye that's still more black than sky blue, still all wide pupil and soft with satisfaction and snorts.

"You promised me I would be crying before you stopped." 

It takes her a while to sort herself out, squirm out of her furs and roll onto them and onto her belly before rising to her knees to wiggle her arse in his direction. He looks at the pale globes hiding another tight opening and her cunt under it now dusky red, sloppy and leaking and his cock stirs again despite having just come. Her slender fingers find their way between her legs and he groans brokenly as her fingers dip into her cunt gathering her juices mixed with his seed. She moans in pleasure bringing her wet fingers to her mouth, paints her lips with the mixture and lets her tongue dart out to lick up the remains from her fingers. 

The not so little bitch is challenging him; the triumphant look in her eyes breaks the last of his self control. He mounts her again like a dog does a bitch covering her with his body and biting at the back of her neck deep enough to leave a mark and taste her blood. 

The taste of it sends a shock through his body and all of a sudden he can hear the Old Gods whispering to him again like they do in the Weirdwood and when he's out in the woods. He growls into the bite, fucks her as hard as he would a whore and all she does is moan for more. When he finally lets go, Sansa turns her head and looks him in the eyes and he knows for sure that the Old Gods are riding them both; her eyes burn with ice, the color of the Other eyes and it only makes him hotter. He grins at her savagely and bites her again. They are no longer even fucking; ridden by the gods they mate for their pleasure the gods, to fulfill their purpose.

She screams as he forces her rump higher into the air, her legs further apart so that he can enter her deeper. It seems like the room melts away around them until Sandor imagines that they are out in the open despite the fire on the other side of the room that's making them sweat. Something like a snow fury dances around them and snowflakes decorate Sansa's hair when she whips it around in her frenzy. Time seems to stop around them lost in each other and the North storm that seems to rage in and around them. 

Sandor doesn't remember finishing, doesn't remember passing out either or how they managed to get back to his room. All he can remember after a certain point is Sansa, he'll always remember her no matter what, and pleasure the likes of which he hasn't known before.  
The furs have gotten lost sometime during their mating; they lay on the bed tangled in each other bodies sticky and sore. Sandor groans after trying to move and Sansa giggles when he starts cursing for once sounding younger than her age. The giggles cut off when she tries to move turning into a whimper.

"You wanted to be crying, Little Bird."

He rolls over heavily, curls himself around her to nuzzle at Sansa's throat. 

"You have fathered a pup, ser. The Old Gods wanted a true King of the North; he will stand against the Dragons and the fire demons."

Her words descend into a purr as she pets his shocked brow before reaching for the food. Sandor watches the once so delicate lady scarf down bits of meat and gulp wine from the flask to satisfy her hunger and thirst. She turns to him, leans against the pillows by his head and offers him morsels from her hand. He should object to being fed like a child or a pet, especially since she's just announced that he's going to be a sire. Yet he's too hungry to refuse the meat and can't resist the opportunity to nip at her fingers when they come near his mouth. He growls when she giggles at him and demands wine that he then pours over her tits and licks off mixed with her sweat. She cuddles close pulling his head onto hear breast and finally settles down. 

"I hope you know what you're doing Little Bird. If you're gravid there is hardly a way back."

Sansa lets him nuzzle at her tit as she thinks.

"We will not be going back. Without an heir who has the blessing of the Old Gods the North shall not stand. A child of winter to unite all the people of the North, as it was always meant to be."

A part of Sandor is relieved that there will be a winter of peace. He won't have to worry about his Little Bird entering the game of thrones for a while yet, probably years. From her tone he gets the impression that the child will be a man grown before winter ends so he'll have years and years in darkness and comfort to spend with her and with their pup because in winter they will only have to worry about the snakes that are already there with them. No Southrons will make it up the neck and through the snowy wildness unless they are really determined. He wonders how many other strays they are liable to expect, not that any of them would be his problem; he's there to do as his lady commands.

Sandor prefers not to think too much about these things, safe those thoughts for the dark evenings when his Little Bird is too busy to bother with her old dog, when he doesn't feel like drinking. For now with his belly full of food and wine and his wench in his arms he's content to doze and think only of fucking her again when he wakes up, perhaps even without the Gods interfering now that she's knocked up already.  
Sansa starts to sing softly some incipit song about knights and maidens, something that reminds them of their past of the people they no longer are. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift away listening to her voice rising and falling in the darkness.


End file.
